


At Heart

by technicallyGone



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Baby Rose, Dave and Bro bein' bros, Family shit, Lalonde feels, Problems, Strider Feels, pre sburb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 10:28:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technicallyGone/pseuds/technicallyGone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A moment looking into Mom's life as she raises Rose and tries to deal with her alcohol problems.</p><p>A moment into Bro's life as he stitches up his brother and wonders if things will be alright.</p><p>-two separate little drabble-y thingies with common writing styles-</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Heart

**Author's Note:**

> ( I was challenged by a friend to write anything Homestuck, over 800 words, the theme being 'the heart'. )

One hundred. One hundred one. One hundred two.

You take a drink. Shit. On the other side of the house, you can hear crying. Probably Rose, wanting fed or changed or picked up or-

Start over again. One. Two. It can't be that hard.

You stagger to the other side of the house, wincing at how many times you stumble and fall into things.

You finally get to the edge of the crib, leaning on it. Rose is squirming, though you doubt she wants fed and you changed her diaper not too long ago. She opens her eyes and looks up at you, and she's a bit calmer. She reaches out for you with her chubby little fists and it hits you.

Seventy two. Seventy three. The martini glass is still in your hand, though you'd spilled most of it's contents walking across the house. You would probably have an easier time quitting if you set down the alcohol but you were dependent. So fucking dependent on it.

Rose starts crying again as you just stand there. She must think you're ignoring her. No, shh baby. Mommy's just dizzy right now. Mommy's just sick.

Mommy will get better though.  
________________________________________________________________________ 

A blinding light and wail wake you up. Rose sounds hoarse and the sun's peeking through her light purple curtains.

How long has she been crying? Since before you passed out. How long have you been passed out?

You see the stain on the pretty pink carpet next to you where the small remainder of the liquid fell onto the floor from the glass still in your hand.

Too long.

You get up, grabbing your daughter, and she finally calms down a bit. Only now, she does need a diaper change, and fed, and you need to hold her. You're a little taken back by the weight of her in your arms. You've been so adjusted to holding your stupid fucking glass more than your daughter that now the infant almost seems to heavy for you to hold, to carry.

Once the child was dry and fed, you just slumped against the door to her room, holding her. You make a thousand promises to her you know you won't remember when you pick up the next bottle of alcohol to forget the hangover.

"Rose, Mommy's sorry. Mommy's so sorry. Even...even if you don't have all of Mommy's attention, you'll always have all her heart."  
________________________________________________________________________

Young, stupid, tired you didn't understand how to hold herself together better. Didn't understand the way she'd affect her little angel.

Didn't understand the meaning behind the words she'd said, and didn't realize how true they were.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_

One. Two. Three. Shit this is a lot of blood. Four. Five.

Is he breathing?

....

Yeah, he's breathing.

Six. Seven.

"Bro, are you almost done?"

You ignore the voice for now. The voice of your brother who's sitting on the kitchen counter, getting a fuck-ton of stitches because YOU hurt him.

Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Shit, how many's this gonna take?

"...sorry."

Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

"Sorry for what?" you ask, managing to look up at his face.

"Not dodging. I promise I'll be faster next time though, I-"

Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen.

"Don't be sorry. S'not your fault. I was just angry today and lost my cool and shit. Grab another towel."

Dave obediently reaches and grabs the towel next to him, shaking as you finish the stitching and pour some more disinfectant over it. You dab away some  
more blood with the towel then rap it.

Twenty three stitches. Twenty three stitches your little brother had to get because you lost your cool.

You two sit there in silence a moment before you start cleaning shit up. Dave cautiously pokes at the wrappings around his stitching and winces, obviously  
deciding it's a bad idea. He looks up at you.

"...so, you're not mad?"

"No, not at you."

You're a Strider. Strider's don't feel emotions. They don't get angry or sad or really fucking depressed because shit the kid isn't even 13 and already has had two many stitches to count. It's simply not in the book of irony, which is like the Strider bible.

"Kay."

You grab the kid a bottle of apple juice as he slides off the counter and tell him to go take some more pain pills and to go to sleep. He nods, and you silently wonder how bad you're fucking him up.

Head up, shoulders back, eyes covered, no emotions and a heart of stone. It'll get him everywhere he needs to be in life, but can someone like that even be happy?

You want to say 'of course he can. If I can be happy, he can too' but your pokerface goes so deep you're not even sure anymore.


End file.
